


Expecting

by DreadPirateWestley



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Pregnancy, Pregnancy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadPirateWestley/pseuds/DreadPirateWestley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reluctant Benedict has to be coaxed into relations with his very pregnant (and horny) partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Benedict fic ever, originally posted quite some time ago on BCSF. Not a prompt fill, just something my random brain came up with.

     Standing in front of the air register, you lift up your thin cotton gown and let the cold air blast straight onto your stomach. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Nearing the end of your second trimester, you were nausea free, not quite so constantly tired anymore, and the strange food cravings were under control. But this London summer heat, mild by the standards of your upbringing in the Southern part of the US, was suddenly brutal. You’d turned the thermostat so very much lower than was necessary - and Ben would look at you like you were insane when he got home - but it felt so nice.

     Ben. Your mind wanders back to last night and the lovely dream you’d had about him.

     To say it had been awhile since the two of you had been intimate was only just short of an understatement. The first time morning sickness had paid you a visit it had ignored its name and stayed around morning, noon and night. Sleeping more than a few hours each night became difficult, and you grew so tired of your own complaining that you’d moved into the guest room so that Ben could get some uninterrupted sleep. He protested violently (and adorably) but in the end settled for an extended cuddle every night before you sent him away.

     Suddenly, miraculously, several weeks ago the nausea had become bearable. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. Ben woke up one morning with you beside him, staring at him intently, grinning madly. He’d done a little dance around the room in his boxers when you told him you were back for good (or until your third trimester, when things got really uncomfortable) then insisted on stripping the sheets from the bed and putting on fresh ones just for you. It was possibly only the second time he’d made the bed willingly.

     As close to normal as you felt then, your body was still a hormonal battleground and you wondered how Ben really viewed your changing body. He never outwardly expressed anything you would call disgust, like you had at your own growing shape in the mirror most mornings, but just the thought that he might not find you as attractive as he did when you weren’t pregnant made you keep him at arm’s length. He never pressed for intimacy, and for that you were grateful. Then, you’d had the dream.

     Sex. Quite simply the best sex the two of you had ever had, playing over and over in your head like a sports highlights reel. You’d woken up in a cold sweat, heart beating in your ears. You’d turned to his sleeping form with every intention of pouncing on him when you’d remembered how very late he’d gotten in that night, and how early he’d have to be up that morning. The next few days were spent casually quizzing him on his shooting schedule, silently gathering clues as to when the best time for a little catch up session might be, and it was looking like tomorrow would be the day. The research on the best positions had been done (Thank you, Internet!) and you had all the answers prepared to the questions the love of your life and over cautious father-to-be was bound to ask.

     Caught up in the reverie of possibly getting to devour your lovely, British, ginger-curled Ben again, you stand still in front of the air register, eyes glazed over, completely oblivious to the bedroom door opening behind you. His laugh booms out then, causing you to turn and stare at him with great annoyance. He’s not supposed to be home this early, and he isn’t supposed to laugh at your discomfort! Mimicking your pout, he walks toward you, then smiles as he pulls you close.

     This had become an almost daily ritual - Ben coming home after a long day, taking your face in his hands and kissing you sweetly, then kneeling to caress your ever expanding belly, murmuring nonsensical cooing sounds to your unborn child. It was touching at first, but you’d begun to wonder if he wanted the kid to talk like a person or a Teletubby. As a compromise, he’d begun reading to the both of you at night in bed, proper literature (you were fond of Charlotte Bronte) and some children’s books as well. You’d decided you felt lucky that he’d done so many audio books in his career - if ever he was away on location for a long time, you could play some of those for the baby (though maybe not Casanova - that would be for Mommy’s private time!).

     “Is it just me or is it freezing in here?” He pretends to start to take off his leather jacket, then stops and begins shivering like a wet cat. You smile sheepishly.

     “Yes, it is, sorry. I’m just really warm today. I’ll put on the fan and you can turn the thermostat back up a bit.” You turn to switch on the fan and smooth your gown demurely over your stomach, trying not to look like you’ve been up to anything. “What are you doing here so early anyway?”

     “What? You’re not happy to see me?” He strides to the closet and sticks his head in and out quite dramatically. “Do you have a man in here? Did I interrupt something?” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to smirk.

     He continues as though you’re encouraging him. “Director got tired of looking at my face. Everybody’s face, really. Sent us home.” This whole schtick is his lame attempt to amuse you and deflect your embarrassment over being caught cooling your overheated pregnant self. You are not amused and continue to scowl playfully at him. Ben winks at you then looks away, slinging his jacket onto the chair in the corner, then plops down on the bed to remove his boots.

     “No, really, he’s apparently coming down with a nasty flu. That and our location fell through at the last minute. So while the cast and crew get a nice three day weekend, production team’s going to spend it on an unscheduled recce.”

     “Oh,” you manage, mind churning ferociously. This changed things. You have some nice lingerie you’d bought to tempt him with, nothing fancy, but it’s hidden away still in its bag in the closet. Getting it now would be obvious. You’d hoped to have a nice table ready when he got here Friday evening, with candles, roses, his favorite take away, etc. You were nowhere near ready to seduce him. And yet, you had showered today, and taken time with your hair and makeup (even if you hadn’t really gotten dressed), sort of a practice run. At the moment you don’t feel hideous, he seems to be in a great mood, and what’s more he looks delectable. Old jeans that fit him just right, a simple button down shirt he had endearingly failed to fasten even half way up, and those lovely hands are fiddling quite gracefully with his biking boots. Oh, those hands.    

     Maybe it could be all right tonight. It’s as good a night as any. You close your eyes as you remember how his hands felt on you the last time you made love, before the crippling nausea came and ruined your sex life. You realize that it will be different this time. But maybe different can be good…exciting. You watch him walk to the closet and deposit his boots, then pad barefoot back across the bedroom. He catches you staring and smiles, an eyebrow raised.

     “Something on your mind?” he says, cocking his head to one side.

     You smile back and begin to move toward him. “Yes,” you say. “You.”


	2. Chapter 2

     He smiles as you walk over to him and place your hands on his chest.  You inch up on your tiptoes as far as you can and kiss him.  He’s suddenly shorter, and you know he must have widened his stance to reach your lips more easily.  You reach up and grasp the nape of his neck with one hand, caressing the freckle on his neck with the other.  Your thumb traces the mole in circles, and a familiar ritual begins.  
  
     “Got something on your neck,” you say.  
  
     “Hmmm, do I? Must’ve missed that in the shower.”  His words are full of his smile.  
  
     “It’s OK,  I’ll get it.”  And you kiss him there, your lips applying the slightest of pressure.  You hear him inhale ever so slightly, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him.   
  
     He says your name with the slightest edge, as though he’s trying to keep himself together.  “What are you doing?”  He’s trying to sound playful, but you hear the fear in his voice.  So he’s been thinking about this too, you think.  He’s been worrying.  
  
     “I’ve missed you,” you whisper, looking up at him, not daring to blink.  “I’ve missed us.”  Your hand slides slowly down the front of his barely buttoned shirt, to rest over his heart.  You leave it there and watch his chest begin to rise and fall more rapidly.  You can feel him wanting to pull away, push your hands down to your sides and kiss you on the head like a child who wants their way but won’t be getting it.  You’re not going to let him do it.  “Make love to me, Ben.  I want you to.”  
  
     His head darts sharply to the side and he smiles for an instant.  It’s quickly replaced by a frown and a shake of his head.  “I don’t think…no.  We shouldn’t,” he says with imitation finality.  You huff a little then close your eyes.  
   
     “Benedict, you know it’s fine.  I’m healthy, everything’s good, and it’s…perfectly fine. You know what the doctor said. And all the books.”  You open your eyes to find him staring at you.  “It’s _fine_.  And I _want_ to.  Don’t you want me?”  
  
     His hands are suddenly on your face, his mouth firmly on yours.  He pulls back to nuzzle his nose against yours and shakes his head slightly.  “That’s ridiculous.  Of course I want you.  Everyday I want you, for the rest of my life.  It’s just…”  You know.  He doesn’t want to hurt you.  If this goes badly, he probably won’t touch you again for months.  But you can’t wait.  You won’t.   
  
     “Ben, please.”  You kiss him then, hungrily.  Your tongue finds his and your hands undo the last few buttons on his shirt, not so gently running your fingernails across his stomach, down to the waist of his jeans.  He keeps trying to break the kiss, you feel it, but you won’t let him.  You catch his lower lip gently in your teeth and suck on it.  You feel something like triumph as his hands reach down to explore your backside, and you try not to think about how much it’s expanded in the last few months.  He begins to guide you in the direction of the bed and it’s all you can do not to cheer as you feel its edge against your legs.  You finally break the kiss to smile at him.  He smiles back.  
  
     “Come on,” he says, gently pushing you down.  “Lie back.”  He moves toward the bedside table, and you know where this is going.  When you first told him you were pregnant, you also confessed all the fears you had about what it would do to your relationship, your sex life, and your body - both long and short term.  You’d bought the bottle of cocoa butter - you’d always heard it was a tried and true method to keep stretch marks at bay, although you weren’t quite convinced - and meticulously applied it to your belly every night.  When you’d first started showing and Ben became enamoured with your baby bump, he’d taken over the nightly application, first kissing you and humming softly against your gently stretched skin, then rubbing the lotion on you evenly until it typically lead to…other things.  Now, as then, he seems very eager.  He quickly sheds his shirt and pumps some of the cream into his hand.  As he works it into his palms, he looks at you with those frozen blue eyes and you start to shiver.   
  
     Kneeling beside you on the bed, Ben slips his hands under your gown, and begins massaging your stomach methodically, watching you intently.  He moves up by inches, until he’s just under your breasts, the only feature on your body you feel pregnancy has been kind to.  They are ever firmer, ever rounder and you love them.  Ben leans over to kiss between them, just over your gown’s neckline.  You reach up to knead the muscles in his arm and back.  He kisses you again, and you see something change in his eyes.  His body shifts and then he is between your thighs, pulling at your thin cotton underwear.  They are soon on the floor.  Something in your lower belly begins to burn as he kisses your left knee, his hands slowly pulling you down, flush with the foot of the bed.  With that, you realize you haven’t quite won the battle yet.  His mouth continues its assault, but you know what he’s doing.  And he’s not going to get away with it.  
  
     The feel of his lips on your inner thigh, slowly, heatedly moving closer to where your body so desperately wants him to be is exquisite.  You breathe in and out slowly, deliberately, telling yourself that you are only going to humor him for a little while, then you’ll persuade him to do something the both of you can enjoy - preferrably simultaneously.  You simply will not tolerate him treating you as though you’re breakable.  Your annoyance at his stubbornness is almost enough to pull you back from the reality of what he’s doing down there, of what he’s about to do.  Suddenly, you cry out in surprise.  
  
     “Stop! Ben, stop!!”  
  
     His head pops up and he frowns at you ferociously.  “I haven’t really done anything yet, love,” he says, moving to go back to what he was doing.  You exhale in exasperation.  
  
     “Ben, you have to be careful!  Don’t blow any air into me, it can cause an air embolism and—”  
  
     “I know!”  His head pops up again and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.  “All right, one: when I have ever done that while doing this anyway?  Although,” he grins madly, “We can make a note to try that later on, after the baby’s born.  And two: in case you’d forgotten, I did read all the books you bought for us.  Every single footnooted and meticulously highlighted page.  So I’m well aware of what not to do.  Now, be quiet.  Well, stop talking, anyway.”  
  
     His shift from silent and reluctant to vocal and very willing is jarring to you, and almost funny.  He wants to give me pleasure, and then convice me I got what I wanted, you think.  His tongue on your hot center is suddenly evidence of this fact, and almost enough to make forget your goal.  My God, but the man had not lost his touch.  A few more minutes of this couldn’t hurt, you think.  You close your eyes and arch your back as much as your heaving stomach will allow you to, but then you remember one of your favorite sights: those golden curls between your legs, those eyes piercing into you.  You open yours to drink it in, but all you see is your pregnant belly.   
  
     “Benedict….Timothy…..Carlton….Cumberbatch!  STOP!!”  
  
     His face pops into view so fast you nearly laugh.  He looks alarmed.  “WHAT?  What’s wrong?  Did I hurt you?”  His hands are clutching your thighs, his face darting over every inch of you, trying to surmise the trouble.  You roll your eyes and let your head fall back on the bed.  
  
     “No, no you did not hurt me.  You were turning my world inside out, for your information.  But two imporant things occur to me from this angle.”  You relish mocking his earlier exasperated tone.  “One: half the fun of this is watching you doing what you’re doing down there, but I can’t see you over my stupid stomach!”  You wait for this to sink in.  He giggles softly.  “Two: this is not what I had in mind and you know it.  I want us to engage in intercourse.  Together.  RIGHT.  NOW.”  
  
     With that you sit up swiftly, pull your gown over your head and fling it across the room.  You pull Ben and his startled face toward you and shove him onto the bed, onto his back.  As gracefully as you can manage you throw one leg over him and press your now naked breasts against his chest.  One hand travels down to his jeans, fiddling with the button.  Your eyes bore into his and you growl three words:  
  
     “You.  Naked.  NOW.”


	3. Chapter 3

     Benedict blinks up at you, amusement on his face.  His hands are already exploring you, places he hasn’t touched in so long.  “Should you really be trying to wrestle me, in your condition?” he asks.  You playfully slap his chest with your free hand and scowl at him.  “I’m serious.  Get these pants off, right now!  Dammit, I can’t work this zipper!!”  His smile bursts across his face as he reaches down and easily unzips his jeans.  You move your leg to sit up on your knees beside him as he stands to remove them.  You bounce up and down slightly in anticipation, inching closer to him.  He pulls his pants down, leaving his boxers intact, but when he sees your face he thinks better of teasing you any more and sheds them as well.  You smile and take in the sight of him.  
  
     He’s not quite fully erect, and you look up at him playfully.  “Oh no, no.  That won’t do,”  you say.  “We can’t get anything done with that.”  You scoot over to the side of the bed and wrap the fingers of your right hand around him.  He sighs, moving toward you wordlessly and compliantly.  You flick your thumb quickly back and forth over his sensitive tip, and he responds by grasping at your shoulders, his breath coming faster.  You nuzzle your face into his abdomen, kissing the smooth, straining muscles there, rolling your tongue over them slowly.  You feel him hardening in your hand, so you trail kisses even lower over his stomach, so close, and you intend to take him in your mouth, just for a bit, and give him a taste of what he did to you earlier.  His hands tangle in your hair then, forcing your head up to look at him.  His eyes are hazy and he seems to struggle just to speak.  “Oh, no.  You had your chance at that already.  Things would be over much to soon if we went that route.  Not this time.”  He bends down and kisses you fiercely, pushing you backwards as he climbs onto the bed.  His tongue assaults you, and soon enough you feel like you’re being devoured, those beautiful lips latched onto you so tightly that you’re breathing in the air he exhales.  His erection digs into your belly as he reaches around to clutch your back and thrust against you slightly.  You press yourself against him as best you can, hands linked behind his back, his chest solid against your flattened breasts.  His mouth abruptly breaks from yours and he looks at you expectantly.   
  
     “So—remind me.  What do your books say is the best way to do this?”  
  
     You smile demurely and disentangle yourself from his arms.  You let your hand play lightly along his chest as you move away, crawling on all fours to the headboard where you clutch the top edge firmly with both hands and raise yourself up on your haunches.  You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder.  Your legs are spread as wide as you can manage and you’re shaking with anticipation.  “I think this will work,” you say, licking your lips just before you turn your head back to face the wall.  The bed moves as he scrambles toward you and then his thighs are there under yours, his hands on your hips urging you to sit.  
  
     There’s no time for teasing now.  You’re so wet, so ready.  Your eyes are wide, staring at the wall over the bed.  You brace your arms against the headboard again and begin to lower yourself onto him.  “Ben,” you whisper, “Not too deep.”  He squeezes your hips in acknowledgment and rises up to meet you, slowly slipping inside.  The impact makes you dig your nails into the hard wood, certain you’ll leave a mark.    
  
     Different, just as you’d suspected.  So very different — and aching and luxurious and unbearably good.  Ben has always been very efficient in bed, never leaving you wanting more.  Neither of you have ever been too terribly patient when it comes to sex, both choosing a sprinter’s pace, rather than that suited for a marathon.  But that’s fine for both of you since you have very large, very compatible appetites.  As soon as you’re done, you’re ready to start again.  But this.  THIS.  Exquisitely slow.  Patient.  Languid.  It feels like it might never end, and each competent, measured thrust from Ben sends such electricity through you, you wonder how you can ever go back to hurrying through it.       
  
     Ben’s voice in your ear interupts your inner reverie.  “My God,” he gasps, “I’ve missed this.”  You throw your head back and laugh at him.  “I knew you did.  I knew it.”  His right hand is on your belly, and you breathe deeply, trying to picture what he must look like right now, chest speckled with red, eyes closed, leg muscles tensing in time with you.  The warmth of his chest moving against your back, the feel of him holding himself back ever so slightly - it makes you smile.  Eyes closed now, you reach down with one hand to cover his where it’s massaging your belly in time with his thrusting.  Still moist with the cocoa butter, your skin smells vaguely of chocolate, and that commingled with sex is exactly how you feel this bedroom should always smell.   
  
     You’re getting so very close now, and you know you need those hands on your breasts.  “Ben,” you say, your voice husky and strangled.  He manages a small “Hmmm?” in your ear.  “I…oh, God.  Nipples…..please….NOW.”  He plants an understanding kiss below your earlobe, then his hands are there, cupping you gently in each one, at first squeezing playfully.  He knows this isn’t what you need and most certainly not what you asked for, and just as you’re about to growl at him for it, his thumbs and forefingers catch both nipples and begin to tug.  Something jerks deep inside you and you nearly lose your breath.  Every nerve in your body is suddenly at attention.  You clutch at the headboard to steady yourself as every inch of you becomes aware of the blissful sensitivity that, up until a few moments ago, only certain parts of you were aware of.  Just like that, it all connects, and you can’t help but feel like one big mass of firing synapses.  It is absolutely the best kind of sensory overload.  
  
     It’s all too much, just the right amount, and still not enough.  You’re so in the moment and on the verge that you don’t know which pleasurable sensation to focus on - the bruising fire between your legs or the raw sensitivity his expert fingers are creating on your nipples. You try to concentrate on bringing it all together, but you can feel it overwhelming you.  A wave of tingling heat laps at you, starting with your toes, gushing up your rapidly tiring legs and then caressing you deep down, in the pit of your belly. The ocean rushes in your head, where it blocks out your hearing, making you deaf to your own voice hoarsely calling out Ben’s name.  
  
     You are absolutely spent, and disoriented.  You struggle momentarily with your balance, grateful for the headboard in front of you.  Benedict is still there, moving expertly within you, his breathing ragged.  He speaks with difficulty into your hair.  “I like it….when you….say my…name.”  He’s tired and no where near climax.  He’s holding back because of you and it hurts your heart.  All you want for him is the same pleasure he’s just given you.    
  
     You feel the need to talk him through it.  Usually you’re the one begging him to talk to you — his rich, dulcet tones stroking your ears as you orgasm.  You’re not quite sure what to say, so you quickly decide to just be honest.  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve dreamed about this?” you say, drawing out the words carefully.  “Do you know just how crazy it made me, the thought of you inside me again, after so long?”  You push back against him and feel his nails dig into your thighs.  His breath is hot and rapid on the nape of your neck, but still he carries on, small, desperate cries escaping his lips.  “What do you need?  What do want?” you say, matching his hips thrust for thrust.  “Oh God, Ben…anything for you.  Anything at all.”  His hands move up your body to clutch your upper arms, and his teeth graze your shoulder.  One last, guttural cry emanates from him and he shudders against you, not quite as violently as you imagine his body would if he weren’t trying to be gentle, and you can’t help but appreciate him even more for this gesture, this heroic restraint.    
  
     You feel the weight of his body fall almost violently back on the bed, and now it’s your turn to be concerned for his health.  As delicately as your rubbery legs and still pregnant stomach will let you, you fall back on your left side and writhe around to curl up next to him.  His chest is flecked with redness, heaving.  Both his hands are stretched over his head.  You prop yourself up on one elbow and stare at his face intently, but he doesn’t open his eyes.  “Benedict?”  There is no response, just his measured gasps. You try again.  “Benedict, are you all right?”  Still silence, but you see his eyes, barely slits, glance towards you.  
  
     “No, I’m not.  This time tomorrow my body will feel like it did after my first day of cavalry camp for ‘War Horse.’  You weren’t supposed to break me.”  He brings a hand to your face, tucking your hair behind your ear.  His small, serene smile tells you that he’s not going to be admitting he was wrong any time soon.  And that’s fine, you think, as long as we do this more often.  You lie down next to him and let images of your entwined bodies assault your mind’s eye.  You can feel soreness in your legs, back and arms, but it subsides as you still yourself.  You don’t mind this kind of pain.  Suddenly there’s a flutter inside you, and you reach for his hand.  
  
     “Ben, the baby’s awake,” you say, pressing his palm against the rather forceful foot or hand or whatever it was.  He sits up eagerly, albeit with a groan, and traces the outline of the bulge with his finger.  
  
      “Of course she is, who could sleep through that?”    
  
     You smile and reach up to touch the last traces of splotchiness on his chest.  “You know, if you’re half as good a father as you are a lover, our child will probably be perfect.”  He laughs loudly at this and it does your heart good to see him so happy. There’s a bit of nervousness there, though, you see it in the corner of his mouth.  His next words don’t surprise you.  
  
     “Today we’ve conquered one of my fears.  I rather think two in a twenty-four hour period is asking for a miracle.”  He won’t look at you.  You have a fierce need to nip this in the bud.  
  
     “You’re going to be a wonderful father.  Do you hear me?” He looks at you quickly, contemplates your words, then looks away.  “Trust me,” you say.  “It’s the role you were born for.”  
  
     “Do you think so?” he asks.  
  
     Your smile is his answer.


End file.
